


where you came from

by fishydwarrows



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Betaed, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Dark, M/M, Non-Consensual Cloning, Not a happy ending but also not NOT a happy ending, One Shot, Quentin is a clone without a shade and Eliot is depressed, References to Depression, Suicide Attempt, hey sera gamble what was with the candy witch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25692934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/pseuds/fishydwarrows
Summary: The candy witch collects. Quentin gets a crown. Eliot gets a flower.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 38
Kudos: 63





	where you came from

**Author's Note:**

> hey so i was rewatching 2x1 and got really pissed about how that plot line was dropped/went nowhere soooooooooooooooo haha what if the candy witch made a clone of quentin just like. for fun lol
> 
> the title is taken from "Like Real People Do" by Hozier and the whole quote is:
> 
> I will not ask you where you came from  
> I will not ask and neither should you
> 
> thank you Airenn for betaing this for me!! i am an impatient ass and you are a very speedy reader ily
> 
> edit: i made art for this now! because why not

Honestly, Eliot didn’t want to be in Fillory. 

It was the foremost thought in his mind when he limped out of the clock, when he gripped Margo’s arm like his legs could go out from under him at any second (which they could), when he rubbed and wore grooves into the ram head handle of his black cane. It was a never-ending echo, like he had shouted in a cave, far, far away from the light, and he could see nothing and hear nothing, except his own voice, mocking him. 

Not to say that Eliot didn’t like Fillory. No, no, Fillory was fine. It had opium in the air! Definitely something a recovering non-consensual addict wanted in his life. 

He just wasn’t feeling it. 

It just didn’t feel the same- and that was the weirdest part because as Eliot looked out at the now more-than-four-towered Whitespire he recognized that Quentin had never been in Fillory that long. Well, ruling anyway. Any non-ruling memories had been ceremonially burned and tucked away back at Brakebills. 

Eliot was barely walking, barely limping. 

So, letting himself think for a moment? No, he couldn’t do that. 

Instead, he looked at Whitespire 2.0 and considered. 

“That’s a lot of towers.” 

“That’s my  _ fucking castle, _ ” Margo spat, perfect teeth gritted. 

A rustle to their left. Eliot turned. Some people. Two with hoes and one with a wheelbarrow. Three actual people, three beautiful, beautiful people who could tell them what was happening. 

“Hey, excuse me. Weird question- Fillory is still ruled by Acting High King Fen, right?” 

The guy in the middle, dark skinned, nice beard, looked at him suspiciously. 

“This isn’t some loyalty test, is it?” 

Eliot grimaced. 

“No, no,” he said, leaning on his cane, wishing it would bend and break and with it him too, “We’ve just been…away for a while.” 

The man cast his suspicious look to Margo and back again. The other two -his kids? They definitely looked like his kids- remained silent. 

“The Dark King reigns. Glory to his rule. High King Fen and Josh the Fresh Prince were overthrown three hundred years ago, may the Gods curse them both.” He grabbed his wheelbarrow and nodded to them both. “Have a good day.” And the three passed them by. 

Eliot walked from the path, feet kissing the edge, his toes clenching and numb inside his black loafers. Margo came up next to him. He felt kinda sweaty. It wasn’t the weather, no, weather in Fillory was usually on the tepid side. It was probably from all the black- black absorbed heat after all. And he was wearing all black, so, made sense. Black was symbolic of lots of things: the night, blood (sometimes), ash, remains, death, etcetera. It was a mourning color. 

“Fuck this Dark King,” said Margo, the fluffy pink of her coat was just in his peripheral, her pink lips the same. “This shithead thinks he can take my friends, my castle, my  _ throne? _ Oh--,” She flexed her fingers in the beginning of Popper-72,and smiled maliciously. “He’s got another thing comin’ to him.” Eliot nodded absently. In his breast pocket, tucked away, was a small silver flask. He wasn’t supposed to be drinking -a month wasn’t enough time to heal, even when emergency surgery and magic restoration was involved- but what Lipson didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Plus, he was only looking to hurt one person and that person grabbed Margo’s hand and squeezed once, twice, and let go with a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Let’s give him hell, Bambi,” Eliot said, bravado, cheer, all that jazz. She frowned but didn’t say anything. Good ole Margo. Side by side they limped towards Whitespire.

-

It was cold when Quentin woke up. Cold, damp, and oddly sweet. The air was sticky, and his limbs were heavy with sleep or with disuse; he couldn’t tell. He felt around in the dark with his hands, with his mind, remembering, searching. The Beast, Martin Chatwin, had met them at the Wellspring. Uncrowned Kings and Queens the lot of them, and Julia had taken the man- monster, by the throat with the Leo blade and disappeared. Quentin retched. Penny, oh God, had lost his  _ hands _ , Margo and Eliot, limp against the wall, and Alice, God, Alice, bleeding on the ground. 

Quentin flopped on his side and continued to upend his not-lunch. 

Then he ran. He ran into the forest calling for help and help had come in the form of a woman, a witch? He’d given her his blood. He closed his eyes, clammy and cold. What was next? This was next. He’d woken up here. 

Quentin rolled off the table (for he was laying on one) and hit the ground with a smack. He groaned and eased himself upright, upward dog style, the pose stretching his back with a pop. Quentin stumbled to his feet and grabbed the table for support, hands sharp with splinters and his nails packed with dirt. He felt like he’d been standing in the mud, or a dust storm; there was a thin layer of earth on his skin. He batted at it. Quentin looked up and blinked away the earth and the seeds in his eyes. He rubbed and rubbed and blinked. At last, an interior. 

It was the inside of the witch’s whimsical little house. Vials in neat rows, an armoire, a kettle and blackened stove, a rocking chair, some knitting- unfinished. Quentin groaned. How long had he been out? It was still night, but was it the same night? 

The Beast was still out there, Alice, Eliot, Julia, Margo, Penny, they were all out in the world and Quentin? Quentin had been roofied by a witch, maybe. Some Child of Earth he was. He pushed off the table and stumbled towards the door, his legs jelly-like and trembling. 

The door creaked and opened. 

The witch came through.

“Ah,” she said, eyes sharp and glinting in the moonlight, “You’re awake.”

-

Coming back to Whitespire wasn’t cathartic or anything. The castle didn’t inspire  _ fond  _ memories. The moment Eliot’s broad shoe had clicked on the floor tile he hadn’t felt emboldened or  _ at home. _

Instead he remembered another castle, just the same, with black floors instead of white, red light instead of blue, and an oppressive heat instead of the tepid thing Fillory passed as weather. 

Trade one Hell for another, yadda yadda yadda. 

Margo’s plan to overthrow the Dark King began with finding out what happened to Josh and Fen. Was it fun to discover your (ex?) wife’s ghost hanging from a tree? Not really. 

The fact that Margo had used time magic made it oh so worse. There was temptation there. Horomancy. A long time ago, Eliot had taken it as an elective. He knew how to wind a clock with tools and by magic. How to crook his pinky so that the hour hand moved back a second, reversing the stray fall of a leaf, of a raindrop. 

“You have to let go of the past, Eliot.” That’s what Jane said. Eliot could’ve laughed. Didn’t.  _ Funny.  _ He wanted to say.  _ You didn’t.  _ But that was different, right? Saving the world, saving Quentin. The world always measured and ruled and won. It didn’t matter if Quentin was a world to him. 

Margo could save people. Margo saved Rafe and Tick and Josh and Fen and a whole fuckload of her court- not Abigail though. Eliot sympathized with Rafe; to be left behind was worse. 

So, the plan to overthrow the Dark King. 

So far, so good. 

Whitespire was fine. 

He wasn’t sleeping in the Royal Chambers anymore, obviously. No, no, Eliot was living humbly in the servants quarters of the castle -a place he could admit he’d never gone the entirety of his reign. He was a (undercover) magician’s assistant. The Dark King was maybe, possibly, a magician too. He listened to rumors, gossip. Reports of a man cloaked in black and blue, making strange shapes with his hands and pushing back the raised dead. For three hundred years he had ruled, yet no one had seen his face. 

To Eliot that sounded like Beast behavior, but the Beast had died the same day Alice did. Besides, their problems were way beyond the Beast. 

He pictured sometimes, The Beast and the Monster; he remembered Julia recounting their quest to timeline-23, the Beast, Quentin, murderous, dead. He wondered about the other timelines, the other Eliots, the other Margos. The other Quentins. Thirty-nine times to kill the Beast with no death but one. He wondered too, about that first timeline. Quentin, alone, scared, his best friend dead, begging and begging and begging with Jane to turn it back, he’d stop the Beast, damn the consequences. So much of their lives were consequences. Shooting the Monster, getting possessed, losing magic, saving it, rationing it. Losing and losing and losing and losing. What he would give for a win. What he would take. 

So, he watched and waited and listened. Margo joined the guard, some good and fun violence for her to enact, it was like therapy for her, probably, good for at least one of them to get it. He worked and he conjured and he wrote notes in the margins of books, ever working, ever limping from place to place, his cane a knocking reminder to all: Eliot had been through some shit, so leave him alone. 

Some people didn’t get the fucking memo. 

The Dark King began asking after him. Little notes, little messages. 

_ Can you conjure a ship from thin air?  _ One asked. 

_ Can you make flowers bloom at night?  _ One scribbled. 

It wasn’t flirtatious. Just curious, prodding. 

How much did Eliot know? 

He poured over books at night, something he’d never done, never found the need to do. Turns out a year and a half at magic college was not much for an education. Popper-10, Popper-32, a chant in Old Church Slavonic, etcetera. It was like he had an anonymous and (probably) evil study buddy. Though, leafing through the Armory for a book on enchanted pie filling was something he couldn’t see as evil. Eliot found himself watching the corridors, poking his head around corners. Would he see him today? Would he ever see him? It was a mystery, a puzzle. And Eliot had a lot of practice at puzzles.

-

“I couldn’t help them.” The witch closed the door, leaving them to the dark. “Sorry,” she said, an afterthought. 

Quentin trembled. 

While his legs had felt weak, faunlike, before now he felt sturdy and stone. A crashing wave of grief carried him and washed him closer to the witch. He grabbed her collar, a frantic stream of “no, no, no, no” frothing forth from his lips. His eyes burned. The witch picked his hand off her- his grip was weak. She patted him on the cheek. 

“Poor thing,” she said, her bruise purple lips downturned with pity, “What shall you do? The Beast’s pretenders now sit on the throne at Whitespire. It’s such a shame, you’re the last one left. The true High King.” 

Quentin shook his head. No, no. Eliot. Eliot was High King, High King in his blood. It had made sense. It wasn’t Quentin, it was never Quentin. At long last he’d gotten what he’d wanted, High King of Fillory, but he hadn’t wanted it like this. Not at all like this. His throat worked. He felt choked, he felt drowned, burned, starved, and frozen all at once. 

“No,” he throat was hoarse with disuse, “it can’t- They have to be-“ 

“Ah, but they are.” The witch tsked and collected her knitting, sat down, started, like Quentin’s friends weren’t dead. One purl, two purl, click click click. Quentin shook. 

He flexed his fingers, squeeze, release, squeeze, release. He took a shuddering breath. Sobbed. Breathed again. 

“Pretenders?” 

The witch stopped her knitting and looked up, eyes catlike. “Yes,” she said. “Foes in the form of friends and so on.” 

What was the point of magic, of anything? 

Quentin’s friends were dead. Alice- poor Alice- he’d wrecked her heart and now, now, what good were apologies? Apologies were useless. And Eliot- they never- But it was too late now. Quentin could do something at least. Magic was good for one thing and one thing only: making someone dead.

-

“This Dark King guy, he’s been alive for three hundred years, right?” Margo munched on a macaroon and gestured with her dagger. “So, logic dictates he’s super fucking old.” 

“Uh-huh.” Eliot didn’t look up from his paper. He’d received another note. 

_ Translate me,  _ it had said in scratched writing. The paper looked torn from a book, it was wrinkled yet sturdy, a crackled vellum, yellow with age. There were ink smudges on the edges, the ghost of a fingerprint. The page itself was a spell, or a series of spells. He couldn’t tell yet. There was a drawing of a pineapple looking plant coming up from the ground. Pineapples grow near the ground- Eliot knew that. 

Once, long ago, in first year, Margo and Eliot had portaled to LA and from there drove to Anaheim. It was gauche, probably, to go to Disneyland when you could do real live magic, but Bambi had insisted. Said it wasn’t right that Eliot had never gone and been “deprived of his childhood.” Well, Eliot could agree to that. So, they had sipped Dole Whip and fallen asleep in the Tiki Room. The sound of recorded rain and the shimmering of streamers lulling them to rest. 

“What I’m saying, El, is that this motherfucker could have a ‘heart attack’ and die of natural causes.” 

Eliot frowned. He’d never been good with his Lithuanian. He scratched out an ‘i.’ 

Margo snapped in front of his face. 

“Hello! Earth to Eliot!” 

“We’re in Fillory.” 

“Oh, fuck off, you know what I mean.” 

Eliot sighed and looked up. “What.” 

“What?” She scoffed, “What is up with you? You’re doing this court magician shit like it’s your actual job. Which it’s not.” Margo stabbed her dagger into the table with a huff. Josh made a displeased sound from the kitchen. “It’s a tablecloth, Hoberman, get over yourself.” 

Eliot dragged a hand over his face. His beard was rough and clipped against his skin. He hated it, but it was a way to let go. Made him look older too, and he always felt old. 

“Learning what kind of magic he’s doing can help us understand him,” he said, looking back down at his mess of papers. “We don’t know shit about the Dark King, Bambi.” 

“Yeah, well, I know him.” Margo got up from their table and wrenched her dagger free. “He’s a fascist psycho who’s been alive for three hundred fucking years. You live that long and you do some bad shit. He murdered Fen and Josh, did you forget?” 

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Dammit-“ he started, and quieted. “Dammit, Bambi, I know, okay? He killed our friends, he’s terrible, yes. But, the kind of magic he’s making me do? It’s not- it’s not evil shit. It’s not probability charms or like, the Rhinemann Ultra. It’s growing things, or household spells. Yesterday, I got a note asking for a spell to  _ mend stained glass. _ This guy, this Dark King, whoever he is, is just fucking around, or, or genuinely wants to learn and yes-“ Eliot held up a hand and gathered his things. “That is still suspicious as hell. I’m not an idiot. But, I think there’s more to him, and considering none of us  _ knows what he looks like _ , getting to know him is the best chance we have.” 

“To kill him.” 

“Yes, Margo, to kill him, geez.” 

Margo frowned. Eliot felt the distance between them like a tennis court, volleying and volleying and bouncing away, unhittable, uncatchable. 

“Okay,” she nodded. “Good to know.”

-

Whitespire wasn’t hard to find. It was tall and shining, with it’s four diamond topped towers, it stuck out like a sore thumb. 

Looking at it made Quentin’s stomach churn. 

He felt detached from himself, like his feelings were waiting just outside the door, he need only ask them in. In a small part of his brain he was awed by the castle, but he squashed that. It was a dead place, or soon to be. Quentin fiddled with the satchel about his shoulder. The witch had given him a knife -a gift, her words- the Aries Blade. 

Quentin before Brakebills had always wondered why there was only the Virgo Blade in the Fillory books. He wondered no longer. It was hot to the touch, not like the searing pain of the Leo Blade, a warm, beating heart kind of thing. 

It made his blood sing. 

His blood, the witch had said, she’d used all up. Sorry. In that nonchalant way. She didn’t tell him what she used it for. He tucked the Aries Blade away; it was his “just in case.” 

He did a simple cloaking spell. It worked, but not quite. The circumstances of Fillory, or Quentin himself, were fucked beyond measure. He was a dark, indistinct figure. He felt like Peter Pan’s shadow, untethered, slinking from place to place, causing mischief. He stepped softly up, up the stairs, up the towers, past the throne room, within. In the royal bedchambers, he found them, the Pretenders, the Beast’s servants, goons, whatever. His heart hurt and thumped with a white hot rage. He snuck into their rooms, seized one of them, hung them from a tree. He didn’t look at their face, and they would never know his. The other, he threw into the dungeon. It was magic proof, a nice surprise. One nice thing in Fillory. He left them to rot and starve. 

Later, when the castle woke up, things would be different. 

There were other spells he had put in place. Things he now remembered from long nights in the Brakebills library, his magic magnified in power by his grief. Quentin knotted a loose thread of his last spell and laughed to himself. Magic comes from pain. So, of course, there would be change. 

The throne room was quiet and dark and cool. The crescent moon peeked through the windows and bathed him in silver light. A shadow with a shadow. Quentin twirled an obsidian crown around his wrist. He imagined for a moment what it would have been like, to be crowned with his friends, to crown Eliot High King. He shuddered. The Beast was gone, dead. Everyone was. 

Quentin crowned himself alone.

-

_ For you.  _

The note was unsigned, beside it was a flower. Eliot picked it up. It was a light orange, with purple near its stem. Eliot twirled it between his fingers. It didn’t look like any flower from the royal gardens. He’d been there often enough, gathering herbs and seeds for spells and potions, dirt packed against his knees and a trowel in his hand. He hated the garden and he loved it. 

It reminded him of another garden, a smaller one, where his hands were calloused and veined. He brought the flower under his nose and smelled. It was sweet. Eliot tucked it behind his ear. Reaching his desk, he pulled out a spare piece of parchment and tore at it. 

_ Thank you,  _ he wrote.  _ Where did you find it?  _

He folded the note in half and signaled a guard outside his chambers. “Deliver this to the King,” he said, feeling bold, feeling something. He watched the guard go. The next day he got a response. 

_ The Drowned Garden. The flower bloomed from the love of Fillory.  _

The flower, no longer behind his ear, stood in its thin vase. The pain he’d carried for a month and longer flared in his chest. 

_ Do you love Fillory?  _ He wrote. 

He sent it off and went about his day. 

Hours later: an answer. 

_ I did. _

-

Quentin’s hair had turned white. 

It was the only thing about him that had changed. The candy witch had taken something from him, or done something with his blood that affected him. In any case, he hadn’t aged. Couldn’t die. Though not for lack of trying. 

During the one hundred and twentieth year of his rule he had tried. Plucked a knife from the royal kitchens and just, you know, went at it. It didn’t work. Not a scratch, no drop of blood. 

His advisors got into a tizzy about it. Worried he would off himself while Fillory was at war with Loria. 

Ha. 

Each year Quentin found himself caring less and less. 

What was the point anyway? Of living, of dying, of studying magic? Everyone just fucked up what they had and died with what they got. 

The Beast haunted his steps. Quentin felt like poor Martin Chatwin, trying to escape to a home he could never have. 

He was all alone. Always alone. 

He got curious once. 

The Aries Blade never dulled, it’s blood red ruby handle always glinted in the light. Reflective. 

Once he ran his finger over the tip of it; it drew blood. 

He kept the Aries Blade locked away in a chest, tucked by his beside table, just in case.

-

_ Tonight,  _ said the note. 

“Tonight," said Margo. “Tonight is the night we kill that douche and I get my throne back.” 

Fen scurried forward, two knives in hand, which she happily handed over to Eliot. “Just get into his chambers and when you get close enough…bam!” Fen jabbed, punching Eliot in the shoulder. He winced. 

“Ah- but first, give him one of these.” Josh handed Eliot a small wrapped bag. Eliot sniffed. Peppermint. 

“They’re macarons -dark chocolate and mint- they should incapacitate him long enough for you to, uh, you know.” He weakly mimicked Fen’s jab. 

Eliot was tired, so tired. He wanted to sink into the ground and dissolve. Just stop existing for five seconds. No room for thinking, for breathing. “Why is it  _ me,  _ Margo? Why not you? It’s your crown.” 

Margo tsked. “Oh honey, I haven’t been sending notes to him. I may be his guard, but he barely leaves the castle- that I know of. It has to be you because he  _ knows  _ you now.” She smiled at him reassuringly. “You’ll be fine and soon? Soon that prick will be dead.” 

Eliot grimaced. 

The climb to the royal bedchambers was harder than he remembered. 

That being said, the last time he did it, he didn’t have a cane and a scar on his stomach the size of a small cat. So. Thunk, thunk, the sound of his cane echoed up the stairs. Eliot felt clumsy and obvious. He was Coyote and the Dark King was Roadrunner. Beep, beep. 

At the doors, he hesitated. Eliot could feel the daggers behind his shirt, the flask in his pocket, and the flower behind his ear. 

He breathed in, out, and knocked. 

“Come in,” said a voice he knew down to his blood, his bones.

-

Quentin stacked his research papers absently, listening to the measured steps of his court magician and the closing of the door. 

“I’m sorry,” he began. “I didn’t specify a time. But, this is perfect, really-“ He turned and froze. 

There, in the doorway, was Eliot. 

Time stood still. He was twenty-one again, bursting from the bushes and stumbling across the grassy sea. There was magic and life from death and Eliot was here, was alive. Alive and changed. His hair was long, he looked older and worn, he had a  _ beard.  _

“Q,” Eliot said, his voice, a reckoning. 

“El,” Quentin echoed. 

They each stepped forward and paused. They stared at each other. He couldn’t look away, didn’t want to. Looking at Eliot was like finding an oasis in the desert. You had to drink, even if it was just a mirage. Quentin laughed, a hiccupping sound, and pushed his hair back from his face, pulling.

“You’re dead,” he said, “You  _ died. _ ” 

“ _ You  _ died," said Eliot, devastated, beautiful. 

He had a flower in his hair, Quentin noticed. 

The one he sent. 

“Q, how did you- Quentin,  _ you died. _ ” 

Quentin laughed again and cried. “No, I can’t.” 

He felt frantic, buzzing with energy. He bent down and started to gather his papers, falling to his knees. Eliot dropped his cane with a clatter,  _ his cane.  _

There they were, parallel again, supplicants to each other, each on their knees. Quentin reached forward and touched Eliot’s cheek. 

He felt wild and free. 

The feeling of Eliot’s skin electrifying and dangerous, an open wire. 

“I can’t,” Quentin repeated. 

With force he surged forward and caught Eliot’s lips with his own.

-

Kissing Quentin felt like coming home and going to war. Their teeth clashed and clicked together. More bone and blood than skin and warmth. Quentin’s tongue darted into his mouth and Eliot met his challenge. He pulled and pawed at Quentin’s neck, his hair,  _ his hair _ . It was snowy white and downy soft. 

What had happened?  _ What had happened? _

Eliot pulled away, reluctant, panting. “Q,” he whined, “Quentin, what are you- Why are you here? How did you-“ 

Everything was turbulent. They weren’t in the eye, but the hurricane itself, swirling and swirling, uprooted and thrown around, broken and wind beaten. Eliot knocked his forehead to Q’s and rested there. The daggers under his shirt jostled. He tensed. 

Quentin stroked his cheek, he was murmuring something. “-lone so long and I thought- I tried to summon Ember but he was just  _ gone _ , and so was the Beast, and I’ve been here, here the whole time. I never thought, never dreamed this would- that you could come back-“ Eliot kissed him again, unable to resist. 

“Quentin, I never died. You did. At- at the Seam. Alice said your body disintegrated- you cast in the Mirror Realm- and you disappeared but you died and you were gone-“ 

Quentin laughed, confused. 

“What? No, I’ve been here. The whole time.” He moved his hands down, Eliot’s neck, his clavicles, shoulders, arms, chest. Quentin paused. He hummed and reached into Eliot’s shirt, retrieved the knives. Eliot stilled. He was tightly wound and coiled. Ready to strike, to run, always run. 

“Did you come here to kill me?” Quentin asked, examining the daggers in the dim light. He turned them this way and that. 

“Yes.” Eliot whispered. 

Quentin smiled. He opened his palm and took one of the daggers in hand. 

“The blood of the High King, right?” he said, raising the dagger high. 

He slashed at his palm. 

Eliot lurched forward, fear building in him like a bottle rocket. The dagger dropped with a clatter. Quentin wiggled his fingers and shook his hand -no blood. Eliot fell back on his legs, eyes wide. Quentin stood and with a wave of his hand produced a key. He helped Eliot stand and gave him his cane. He flicked some dust off of Eliot's shoulder. 

“Come and see,” he said. 

Eliot followed.

-

The box was gilt and heavy, enchanted six ways to Sunday and then some. Quentin spent some time unlocking them, stealing glances at Eliot as he worked, drinking him in. 

“What’s in there?” Eliot asked. He licked his lips and shifted his weight. Quentin looked him over; Eliot seemed tired but relieved. He was looking at Quentin with a glint in his eye. Quentin pulled him close by the waist and trailed a hand across his chest, the dark fabric stark against his pale skin. Quentin kissed Eliot’s bearded cheek. 

The black suited him. 

“Remember the Leo Blade?” 

Eliot laughed, bitter. “How could I forget?” 

“Well, Fillory loves her astrology.” 

With a final crook of his index finger the spells dispersed, leaving only one lock left. Quentin inserted the key with a click. He grabbed the Aries Blade, relishing the soft burn. 

“Can you hold it?” Quentin asked, curious. 

Elated that Eliot was back, happy beyond words. But his feelings felt muffled, like a figure through sea glass, warped and cloudy. Eliot reached for the Blade and at his touch pulled back, hissing in pain. 

“Jesus, fuck-“ he shook his hand limply. 

“Ah. Just me then.” 

Quentin turned the Blade in his hands. 

A hand in his hair; Quentin looked up. 

“Q, how is this possible?” Eliot murmured, cupping the back of his head. Quentin leaned into the touch. 

“I was cursed, I think,” he said. He kissed Eliot’s palm. “I went to a witch to save you all- gave her my blood as payment. But, you were already dead,” he frowned. “I think she used the blood anyway.” 

Eliot stroked his cheek; he felt like he had come home. 

“I- I remember the witch, vaguely. She said something cryptic to you and fucked off. We were kinda busy but- But no, Quentin, we didn’t die. Alice brought us back.” 

Eliot looked like Quentin felt: confused. 

“But, the Beast-“ 

“We stopped the Beast, Q. We stopped him. You were there.” Eliot’s other hand gripped Quentin’s waist. They were enfolded in each other, desperate, starving for touch, for common ground. Quentin’s heart ached. How long had it been? 

“I’ve been here three hundred years, Eliot. This is the only place I’ve been.” 

Eliot sucked in a breath. 

“Then you’re not my Q.”

-

“What are you talking about?” Quentin’s brow furrowed.

“You’re not him.  _ My  _ Quentin _. _ ”

The realization was a devastation. Inside him, Eliot’s city crumbled and broke under the strain. No, no, this Quentin. This Quentin with snowy soft hair and blood-not-blood, wasn’t his. He was Quentin-not-Quentin. Eliot’s heart beat loud in his ears, like the sound of the ocean when you hold a shell to your ear. Echoing. Not real.

“Eliot-”

“I can’t- you’re not-“ he tried to pull away. It was a reluctant, half-hearted motion. Yes, Eliot had been half-hearted for a month and more. 

“No-“ Not-Quentin said, his voice dripping with hurt and pain. “No, you can’t  _ leave. _ ” Eliot half-laughed half-sobbed. He turned his head away. 

“Q, I came here to kill you- I can’t stay. And you’re not- You’re not-“ Quentin wrenched his gaze forward and Eliot felt steel something at his sternum. 

“You can’t _leave me,_ ” Quentin hissed through his teeth. His face was contorted in grief and fear and something. 

“I just got you back. You can’t go. I won’t- I won’t allow it. You should stay. I can- I can make you stay. _You can’t go._ " 

“Q, what are you-“

-

Quentin plunged the Aries Blade deep into Eliot’s chest. Eliot cried out in pain, his knees wobbled and he gripped Quentin’s arms for support. Quentin wrenched the knife out and it clattered to the floor. If he could just- yes. Quentin reached inside and coaxed it out with his free hand. 

A tiny beating light flickered in his hand. 

He closed his fist; he’d put it in a jar later. Eliot moaned and looked down, the ragged hole sealing already. 

Quentin laughed to himself. 

A shadow with a shade. 

He kissed the corner of Eliot’s mouth. 

“You’ll stay now,” he said, not a question. 

Eliot kissed back and laughed, not bitter, not happy, not anything. Just amused and curious. 

Just like Quentin. 

“Why would I go?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed :)
> 
> my twitter: @wow__then  
> my tumblr: @fishfingersandscarves


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